


Things Remembered, Things Forgotten

by TertiaryBystander



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, POV Derek, POV Stiles, Season 3a compliant, Suicide Attempt, alpha!Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TertiaryBystander/pseuds/TertiaryBystander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has a big day ahead of him. Derek offers him help where he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Remembered, Things Forgotten

Stiles sits on the edge of a squeaky, worn mattress; it gives a little more than he'd like. The mattress hasn't seen much action, he knows for a fact, but it is pretty old. He thinks back and assumes that they, his parents, got it for him when he grew out of his crib. It's a fair assumption.

Today is a big day. He has trouble catching his breath. His head swirls with implications.

He pulls his legs through each length of a slightly scratchy pair of slacks. Stiles stands and looks down to his waist, there is a button to the left of the zipper. He brings the waist of the pants across his hips and attaches the button to its matching loop. The fit is more snug than he's used to, he's lucky he hadn't the chance to gain any weight from when the measurements were taken. The black trousers, a whole suit in actual, recently tailored by the seamstress downtown, belonged to his father. As he pulls on his own belt, his hand brushes against the pleats along the waist and he grins slightly as he imagines the last time the suit was actually in style.

Stiles jaunts down the stairs, his shirt haphazardly tucked and his jacket and tie over his forearm. His shoes are sitting by the door; clearly, he's had company over to help organize for the day. Apparently, someone is worried about him being late, as if he'd ever be late. His collection of keys and brown, worn wallet sit on the end table next to the couch, which creates an artificial hallway from the front door to the kitchen. He runs fingers along the back of the couch and squeezes it to find some sort of reassurance hidden in the fabric. The edges of his lips tuck a little closer to his ears, not quite a smile, and he considers that the couch, too, could have been retired some years ago. Some things never change, because, you know, why bother?

Stiles nearly forgets his cell when he walks out to his Jeep. He darts back to the house and unlocks the door. It sticks. The lock has stuck since he first received his own house key - a symbol of faith and trust. He jiggles the door and the lock gives. He opens the coat closet and fumbles his hand into the jacket pocket, the navy one with the hood and white stripes. The sheriff had offhandedly picked the jacket up from a yard sale the Yates were having a couple weeks ago. It isn't Stiles favorite, but it fits well. There's no trouble incorporating it into his style. Ha, as if anyone considered that he has 'style'.

Wasting no more time, he hops in his Jeep. He turns the key and it rumbles to life. Something sounds off. He'll take her to mechanic later; he listens when his baby coughs. He makes his way to the church. Derek meets him just inside the entrance, "You're late". He's dressed similarly, in a suit, which far more modern with a straight thin tie, as opposed to the bulky monstrosity Stiles is carrying. His jacket sports stream-lined lapels and fitting pants that hug his tush. As grungy as Derek typically is, he cleans up well. Derek steals the black, matte tie out of Stiles' grip and flips up his collar. Stiles rolls his eyes, "I'm not even late. It doesn't start for, like, another 10-minutes." He double checks his watch.

Derek continues to flip the tie around into an eventual full-Windsor. Derek purses his lips, "We'd agreed that you'd show up an hour early to practice your speech." He pauses and tugs the triangle of the tie and then starts over - the half-Windsor is better. "You did write something," it's a statement that sounds more like an accusatory question.

Stiles sighs as Derek finishes the knot and pulls it gingerly against his top button, connecting the collar together. The alpha is pretty familiar with his geeky counterpart, and it shows more as time goes on. It's actually fairly annoying that Derek reads him so well - something Scott never quite got the hang of. He thinks of Scott having always been in his own world; it's just who he was. Annoyed, Stiles looks off in the distance and feels a tug on the jacket pocket over his left breast. "I've got this, Derek. I don't know why you're so worried about it. You even lined up my shoes at the door. That's weird, even for you. Did you think I'd just waltz over, shoe-less? Where's the faith, buddy?"

Derek purses his eyebrows and lifts his mouth into a near scowl, a common look, "I'll find it later." In a butler-style gesture, he swings his left arm open, ushering Stiles toward the closed double-doors.

His freckled face looks at the doors blankly, he knows what is behind them. In a temporary distraction, he looks down the corridor. There are several doors on each side, leading off into conference or class rooms, one open to a stairwell. In between each door are pictures of angels and heavenly figures drawn by small children, in crayon, on pieces of paper of varying sizes. His momentary distraction brings him to a question, _What heaven will I be sent to._ Noticing the hesitation, the sour wolf puts his hand on the small of Stiles' back and ushers him forward. He stumbles with a flail of the arms from the light pressure and quickly regains his composure. "I'm ready for this, Derek. I've been preparing for this longer than you realize." A little disbelieving, his typically emotionally-constipated companion raises his eyebrows in response.

They walk through the large double-doors. Stiles sees the minister standing behind the pulpit. People fill the sanctuary. He questions silently, Dozens? Hundreds? It's a little difficult to count in a panic. Suddenly, he isn't sure he can stand in front of all these people and utter anything that sounds remotely coherent. He is pretty sure he doesn't recognize half of them. How could he not know so many? Maybe he should have had a drink. Hoping to avoid being noticed, he sits down on the floor behind the rearmost pew. He feels perspiration gathering beneath his shirt. It's hidden, but he's certain everyone will notice.

Derek picks him up under his left arm. "This way. There's a spot reserved for you up front," he states in a very matter-of-fact tone, completely ignoring the obvious attempt at ditching out. Stiles' is certain Derek can smell fear emenating from his pores. He doesn't mention anything and Stiles is grateful for it. Hoping no one saw his brief bout of hesitation, he regains his compsure, again, under his companion's escort. As they walk forward, the clamor of the crowd turns into a whisper and heads turn to their direction. Indeed, there is a spot for him in the front pew. Derek sits next to him. He rests his hand on Stiles' thigh, just above the knee; Stiles draws strength from the security of the gentle gesture, even if it is an unusual interaction for them.

He leans in and whispers to Derek, "And they don't call it a speech, you know. It's a eulogy." Derek likewise whispers his response, "I know."

The minister begins the sermon. Scripture is read and songs are sung. Eventually, it comes time for the community, a good portion of Beacon Hills who apparently either knows or respects the late-sheriff, to say a few words. Stiles is invited to share first. He is frozen in fear and suddenly assumes something supernatural in origin, _Medusa-monster?! Here?! I didn't see snake hair. Or some kind of golem. Everyone must be frozen and confused. A spell? Who have we encountered with spells? Druid thing? Evil-druid thing? How will I get a hold of anyo-_

Derek nudges him forward, and Stiles stands as his arms cartwheel and he spins to see the patrons. _Not a supernatural thing_ , he's disappointed. And now he sees their faces, all patiently - others not so patiently - waiting for him to honor his father. Sweating again, he puts one foot in front of the other and trudges up the 4-steps to the raised stage. This is the first time he allows himself to see the opened casket. The sheriff lies peacefully in his suit, with his arms crossed. It could be a peaceful slumber, like he's dreaming. What if he wakes up any moment? He won't.

A lump manifests in his throat. It's real. It isn't going to be unreal. Lack of acceptance isn't going to change reality. Not even maybe. Now, they're both gone. He grasps the pulpit with clammy palms. His fingers squeeze the lacquered and precisely-aligned wood and has he searches for words.

He coughs and the air agitates the mic. There's feedback, "Whoa." A little embarrassed, he begins, "Uh- M-my dad didn't care about himself y'know. He, uh, looked out for me--for everyone really." Stiles looks down at the podium, away from the congregation; it offers him some sort of security - it isn't staring back. His eyebrows squeeze together and he can feel his nose heating up, "He really cared about everyone. He cared about my-uh, my mom. The, uh--The night she died, I was with her in the hospital. Dad... Dad had a call, he was on the job, because that's who he was." He sniffles. He looks over and notices his friend fumbling with a tissue. He can tell there's struggle as to whether or not Derek thinks he needs to help. Stiles puts up his hand as if to say, _No, thanks. I've got this._ He continues, "Dad was comforting this girl in a car accident. By the time he got there, mom was gone. He cared-", he gasps, "-for everyone way before himself. And he had the duty to the job.

"Y'know, when I was little I wanted to be just like him. Y'know? Big guy - deputy at the time, I saw him go out and catch the 'bad guys'", he quotations his fingers, "I didn't know who they were or what made them that way, but I knew my dad knew. So, I looked up to him. -God, he was my hero... Still is," he exhales forcefully.

"I, uh, I was always watching what he ate. God, he hated me for it, " Stiles let's out an uneasy chuckle. "I can't really blame him, y'know? Ha, I always ate his curly fries, just shoved 'em right in my face. He wanted 'em so bad, it kinda made me feel like I was a part of him. I'd play with the lights and sirens in the cruiser." he chuckles a little heartier, "God, he hated that, too. I memorized all the codes, so he never had any secrets when it came to cases." His hands are clammy. He releases his death grip from the safety of the wooden structure in front of him and rubs the back of his neck, just along his hairline. It's warm and covered with sweat. He isn't entirely certain his heart won't beat out of his chest. It would almost be a beautiful irony. "He had to deal with me constantly. Goddammit, he still loved me with every ounce a kid could hope for. I wasn't easy, y'know. He wasn't always happy, but he could still smile with this, " he looks down and makes a fist, "fucking smile that reminded me that everything was okay. Nothing was so wrong that it wouldn't be okay. You know, he made me believe that maybe he was right."

Stiles looks down at his outdated suit, "He wore this to mom's funeral. 'Kinda thought it was fitting somehow. Well, I had to get it taken in. Fitting, like, symbolically." Stiles reaches his right hand up to scratch his shoulder. He feels something firm in his left-breast pocket. When he thumbs his finger over it, there's a metal, six-pointed star; he figures Derek must have secretly put it there - symbolically. He smiles, "We could all hope to be so brave to put ourselves into his sizely shoes." He looks down, "My dad, great among men. We can keep him close to us, but he'll be missed." Stiles steps down. He walks to his seat. It's done. He feels a little brighter or at least less heavy. His cheeks are flushed and fluid builds beneath his eyelids, a release. Derek cups his hand around Stiles'. He looks at Derek inquisitively, who only looks back with his bright, shining green eyes as if to say, _I get it._

Stiles shuffles his body on the squeaky, wooden bench. It's well-worn from use of parishioners. He tries to get comfortable for the events ahead. It's a fruitless effort.

~_~

When he arrives back at the loft, Derek hangs up his suit, recently purchased, and opens his dresser drawers and pulls out something more casual. He slides on a pair of fitted, dingy, blue jeans and a snug, peridot v-neck, deep enough that a few spirals of chest hair peek out. A tanned, leather belt follows through, loop-by-loop; in his distraction, he misses one in the back.

Stiles weighs heavily on his mind. Derek knows how to empathize with his plight. The fire that consumed the majority of his family still burns in his mind as it were it yesterday. The screams were all imagined; he wasn't present for them, only the aftermath. He would count it as a blessing, but the guilt of the incident runs thick through his blood, boiling in times of inactivity. So, he's almost always active. Always blaming himself. His demons are seldom far away. A quiet part of him recognizes his attachment to the funeral today as a self-serving way to process his own woes - regrets.

Determined to give Stiles his own time to process, he settles onto the couch in lew of an immediate visit. The cushions are soft and worn, familiar and comfortable. A brief nap isn't out of the question. He inhales deeply and recognizes the eventual emotional expenditure to be expected this evening. Tugging on the afghan from the back of the couch, he wraps himself in temporary security. Rest comes quickly. The demons rest, too.

He wakes a couple hours later. It's early in the evening. His first thought is of a casket lowering into ground and the barren expression strapped across Stiles' face. He throws the blanket haphazardly back onto the couch and pulls on his coat, a literal and figurative armor; the creaking leather draws close a determined focus.

He drives to the Stilinski home. Pulling up and confirming a blue Jeep resting in the driveway in front of the garage. He takes a moment to prepare himself, then walks up the sidewalk. He's serenaded by the sound of his heels clacking against the cement. There is something strong and confident in the sound; there is a hope that it translates into the house. He reaches the door and closes his eyes. A nod to himself is a sort of acknowledgment that the times ahead will be rough, but they will get through it.

He knocks. No answer.

Derek hesitantly turns the knob. The door opens unhindered. The smell hits him and he's sent into a panic. _Anger. Fear. Grief. Chinese. Guilt. Confusion. Remorse. Liquor._ Derek leaps over a crumpled pile of clothing on the floor to find Stiles sitting at the kitchen table, unconscious, with his head buried in his left forearm. He's only clothed in a pair of boxers and a black tube sock that's fallen half way down his right calf. Stiles' right hand is turned up on the table with a glass of caramel-colored liquid waiting patiently, nudged up against the flesh of his palm. Jack, neat, proliferates through the room like a poison seeping in and mocking agitated wounds. The rest of the bottle sits on the table unobtrusively. Derek isn't certain how full it was when Stiles started, but the fifth is half empty now.

He sighs. Disappointment proliferates and he steadies himself with both hands on the counter top littered with unclean dishes and half-eaten meals, taking a moment to collect his thoughts - this isn't the help he expected to be offering. He walks to the refrigerator and retrieves a pitcher of filtered water. A clean glass is found somewhere in the cupboard. Derek pours the glass half-full and places it on the table. He sits up his half-naked friend, whose head wobbles as a newborn's. He can hear the heart beating faster than the average person, on par for Stiles, and then makes a half-closed fist and brings the back of the palm just inches in front of his face. A gentle flow of air emerges, followed by another, and another - breathing patterns are normal enough. Temporarily assured that Stiles isn't suffering from alcohol poisoning, he puts one arm underneath the pair of limp legs and curls the other behind shoulder blades. Stiles skin is grainy from salt left over from dried sweat. A mix of emotions still emanates from his pores, even in rest. Derek swings the legs nearer toward the table and grasps the water glass with his index finger.

Stiles begins to stir and mumbles incoherently. He brings his head to nuzzle into Derek's neck. An audible, "Sorry, dad," escapes his lips. Derek isn't sure if he's talking in his sleep or otherwise. The third and fourth steps creak on the way to Stiles' room. Derek allows the glass to gently escape his grip onto the computer table across from Stiles' bed. He turns bedside and pushes over the disheveled sheets. Laying Stiles down, he takes a few steps back to the laptop to pick up the glass. The screen is still on, soaking the room in a blue-hew of light. The screen saver flashes to an old picture he's seen before, an image of Stiles with his father, and his best friend, Scott. Likely, the image was taken sometime around middle school. They are all smiling, beautiful and authentic. Derek shuts the lid - the memory can rest for now.

He lifts the glass and goes over to sit on the bed, then raises his friend back up, "Stiles, I need you do drink some of this." "N'more. Promise-I'hm done f' good," he slurs. "It's water, Stiles. Drink it for me, " he pauses, "please?" He questions the last time he actually offered 'please' to anyone. Stiles, barely conscious smacks his lips, reaches for the glass and spills some of it on the cuff of Derek's pants. Some drips down, saturating his sock. The water is chilled and he flinches in surprise. No harm, he brings the glass to Stiles hand. After what appears to be a firm grip, Stiles brings the glass to his lips. Derek hovers his hand near the glass in case it slips again. It doesn't. "Thank you, Stiles." Without acknowledging, he lies back down. Derek covers him with a sheet, then the comforter.

Derek confirms there is a clear path to the rest room and goes and fills up the glass again. He sits it on Stiles' nightstand. He places a trash can near the bed, then returns to the kitchen. The clock reads, 8:38. Derek's had a nap. He's restless. He picks up the glass of Jack and the bottle it came from. He pours them both down the drain. He hadn't previously noticed the takeout container of Chinese sitting on the kitchen table, the Sheriff's favorite if he recalls correctly. There's rice and soy sauce sprinkled on the tabletop. Sticky chopsticks lay discarded on the floor, their apparent failure resulted in a fork. There are only a few bites-worth missing, and it's long been cold. Whether or not it's worth saving, he covers the Styrofoam container and finds a spot for it in the fridge.

There are several plates covering the counter. Derek takes a stray fork and scrapes the remnants of meals into the trash, which itself needs taken care of. He ties off the bag and relocates it to the garage. A citrus deodorizer is sprayed into the air and the bag replaced. The plates are cleaned afterward. Derek allows him self to wonder briefly, Is this how most people help take care of loved ones after a funeral? He hadn't really allowed himself to get close to anyone, save his late-sister, Laura. They left before the family funeral. There was barely anything left to bury. Everyone who could have cared for them was already essentially gone. The body of their uncle Peter survived, his mind wasn't so fortunate. No one was offering responsibility and the memories were too bitter.

He towels off the last dish and walks into the living room. The clock reads, 10:15, it's a few minutes off from the kitchen. Derek walks to the top of the steps and listens for Stiles breath and elevated heart-beat - again, normal for him. He goes back downstairs and finds Stiles' - his dad's - suit partially on the floor and back of the couch. The pants get picked up off the floor first. He pulls one of the legs right-side out. A black sock falls to the floor; he puts it on Stiles' dress shoe. The shirt looks as if a few buttons on the bottom have popped off. They are found half way to the kitchen. The buttons go to the end table, the shirt on a hanger over the pants. The jacket is resting haphazardly on the back of the couch. A clinking in the pocket insinuate keys. He reaches in and pulls out a set of keys and a wallet. With the entirety of the suit together, it finds a space in the coat closet.

Absentmindedly, he shoves Stiles' keys into his own jacket. He tosses the wallet onto the end table next to the removed buttons. Derek lies down on the couch, fully-dressed, and pulls a blanket over his chest and legs. He stares at the ceiling and isn't entirely sure when he falls asleep.

Derek wakes up to the moon casting a delicate light through the openings of the curtains. It's early morning. A cool breeze floats through the room. He shivers and pulls the blanket closer toward his chin. A light coo rises from this throat in appreciation. The comfort is short-lived when he hears the front door creak gently with the next gust.

Derek practically leaps off the couch in abrupt panic. He waits to hear Stiles' heartbeat. Nothing. His own beating so intensely he isn't sure it might drowning out everything else, but it's the only sound reverberating through his ears. Derek's feet thud up the stairs, each taking multiple steps at a time. His eyes dart around the bedroom The comforter is tossed aside. There is nothing even remotely person-shaped. He sprints back to the stairs and clears them all in a single coordinated bound. He hastily grabs his jacket on his way out the door.

Stiles's Jeep is still sitting in the driveway. He sniffs the air, a lingering scent of despondency and grief strikes his senses. His fingers fumble through his jacket where he finds two sets of keys: his and Stiles'. He rushes out to the Camaro and catches a scent for which direction his friend left toward. He pulls from the curb. Like some cliche, Derek lowers the window and sticks his head out.

Occasionally, he loses the trail, presumably Stiles had walked through yards on his jaunt. 15 or so minutes later - hours it feels - Derek approaches a bridge at the edge of town, a fast-moving current flows several hundred meters below. The wind howls past the metal structure. A figure stands on the far side of the guard rails, grasping them while looking over the water. Derek pulls over, off the road, and turns back the key shutting off the engine. The figure doesn't stir. Derek quickly sprints to the center of the bridge and notes how each step makes very little noise, save the occasional shifting gravel littered across the pavement.

He reaches the figure, clearly Stiles, who still hasn't moved a muscle. The open air rushes by quickly, largely unrestricted. It isn't the safest place to be standing, much less on the opposite side of a security rail. Derek tentatively engages him, "Been here long?"

Stiles startles, but keeps his hands on the painted, slightly-rusted railing. The scent of hopelessness remains strong. He looks toward Derek, whom is clad in a typical black, leather jacket and hands planted in his pockets. Stiles stutters a minute and looks back out over the water before nervously responding, "Hey. I, uh, just a little while. Went out for a walk, y' know? Clear m'head. Yeah. That's, uh, what I did... Guess I kind of... well... ended up... y'know... here."

Silence between them for a bit. Derek begins again, "Clear now," he questions, uncertain if he's vying for information or time. Both?

"Um, yeah. I think so. Pretty sure. It is, I think," Stiles labors through his words. His engagement is distant. His mind is somewhere else.

"Come on, Stiles. Let's go," Derek encourages.

"Um, thanks," Stiles closes his eyes and shakes his head, his voice cracks a bit, "I think I'll stay here a while longer."

Derek nervously takes a step forward. He keeps his hands in his pockets. "Okay. What's on your mind?"

A moment lingers, "Just... Um, things. Thinking things. Not big things. Little things. No big. You should go ahead and go. You're busy with... Stuff... I'll be back... Y'know... Later."

Derek's eyebrows push together slightly, carefully choosing his response. This isn't his forte. He wishes Lydia were here. "I don't-," he pauses, heat and fear rush flushing his face, "I can take care of things later, Stiles." Pausing, "I'll stay." His brows relax.

"Nah, Derek. That's okay. You've... done plenty already. I don't want to burden you anymore."

"You're not a burden."

"I... really am."

Allowing agitation to swell, "Stiles, you're no-"

Stiles turns to look at him, his eyes red from irritation and tears flowing like they've been repulsed from his ducts. He squawks, "Really, Derek?! Really?! I've been a burden my entire life! You think I couldn't see that?! You think I didn't hear a sigh every time I talked to my dad and he didn't know how to deal with me?! Every parent teacher conference he had to hear the same thing: great grades, behavior issues. He had to put up with my questions and my fucking brain every god damned day, Derek! You had to come take care of me and my entire fucking house after I passed out. Everything, spotless. I can't do anything for myself anymore. Nothing for anyone else. Of course, I'm a fucking burden!"

Derek hadn't considered cleaning would have been a problem. Maybe it's not how you take care of people. He approaches the bigger issue, "He loved you."

Deflating, "Yeah, he did," quietly, Stiles turns to face the water again. "And now he's gone."

Silence.

"My whole life I wanted to be like my dad: strong and normal. He was like a sleuth from stories. That's how I saw him. He'd take me on ride alongs and I talked to dispatch. I studied the god damn manuel and learned all the codes. I visited at the station and met all the deputies. But I'm just me. Even after everything I did to feel like him." The wind blows hard past them. Stiles firmly grips the railing to keep balanced. 

"That what the bottle was for?" Derek asks wryly. It's a pointed question.

Stiles doesn't directly acknowledge it. "I tried to take care of him, you know, after mom was gone." His words become nasally and he snorts up the mucus draining down and threatening to drip off his upper lip, "That's all I could do. He didn't take care of himself. I'm all he had. Someone had to do it. Each day after mom just got harder and harder. Had to put him in AA after that. I was, like, 10 or something." Stiles looks his way. Solemn, but full of venom, "Did you know that? He had such a hard time dealing with me and I had to take the fucking sauce away and put him in AA. What does that say about me? He had to drink himself happy. Because of me, Derek."

"He stopped, because of you, Stiles." He wonders when this is going to end. He redistributes his weight, looking for some direct course of action, not this uncomfortable run around.

Stiles looks out over the rushing water again. Quietly, "Maybe. Still didn't help him, though. Nothing I did helped. He's still dead. After everything I put him through: the headaches, the embarrassment and the health food; he still had a heart attack. He still died. Nothing I did helped anything... "

Derek sighs, "Really, Stiles? He had two things that kept him going: you and his job. You know that."

Stiles sniffles again, "Yeah? Maybe. And what about Scott?"

"Yeah, you kept him going, too. Day one from the bite, you gave him direction."

Stiles scoffs, "He had Allison for that. And Deaton."

"He loved Allison, Stiles, but you helped him better than anyone else. Better than her. Better than Deaton. Better than me."

"I got him killed, too. I might as well have pulled the trigger. Right through the heart," he makes a halfhearted attempt at mimicking the sound of a gun firing - it comes off sounding like a blaster pistol from movies, "Pkew".

"Stiles, what are you talking about?"

A little more heated, "It was a bad plan, Derek. It was my plan and it was bad and Scott died, because I had a bad plan... Because I didn't think it through... Because I was afraid."

"Yeah. We were all scared. And we've done better with worse, Stiles. Scott reacted and Scott got himself killed. He saved everyone, remember?"

"Yeah, because it was a bad plan, Derek." Stiles shoots him a piercing gaze, "He had to sacrifice himself, because I didn't see the big picture; because I rushed it."

It's like talking to a brick wall. The conversation seems to just circle around to the same concept. Derek's eyes soften and he musters what can only be perceived as a compassionate tone, "Scott saw an opportunity, Stiles. He reacted, didn't stick to the plan. It was his way. That time it... it just didn't work out." He sighs, "I miss him. He was my brother, too. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. It just... happened."

Tears rapidly fall down Stiles' cheeks into the corners of his mouth. He looks away, "It doesn't matter. The pack has you, now." He half chuckles, "You weren't the worst alpha before, and you got better. Your pack doesn't need me sticking around anymore, not with Scott gone. It'll be easier for them, without the questions; questioning you. It'll be easier with me gone." They're both silent for a minute. "You know, when you're drowning, you don't actually inhale before blacking out. They call it voluntary apnea. When you're freaking out, there's this instinct to not let any water into your mouth; it's so strong that you hold your breath. Eventually, your head starts to feel like it's going to explode. When you finally let it in, that's when it stops hurting and you're not afraid anymore. There's this sort of... Peace. It's not so bad, ya'know?"

Irate, Derek storms over. He clutches onto Stiles' wrist, the heat from his anger and frustration evident. "Fine," the word is pointed and sharp, like a threat.

Alarmed, Stiles nearly loses his balance as he flails his free arm. He turns his head to see what's happening and Derek is standing next to him looking out over the water. "What're you doing, " he questions with shock and gusto, a clear sound of horror trembling his vocal cords.

"Do what you want, Stiles, but we're a team. You're the brains. You plan. You want peace, fine. Me, too. You go, I go."

"Derek, this doesn't have anything to do with you, like, nothing; zero! Just let me go and take care of your pack."

"Cora can do that. She's probably next in line. She can take care of them."

"Derek, this is crazy! Like, let's take a life-trip-to-Eichenhouse crazy! Straight-jacket, padded-walls, line-up-for-pills-at-10am crazy. Do they even have sedatives that work on you? Besides, you'd probably survive anyway, with your wolfie-powers. "

"Maybe. You shouldn't be worried, then," he pacifies.

"Derek, Cora doesn't know how to Alpha-"

"She'll learn. Tell me when you're ready," he sounds determined, ready.

Stiles struggles to get his wrist free, "They need you, Derek." The effort goes unfulfilled.

Derek shoots him an accusing glare and abandons his general stoicism and flashes his eyes red, "They need you, Stiles! I need you! We're a team. Did you forget that?! Did you forget how important you are to us? Did you forget how we gave you space, because you needed it? Did you forget how we dragged your ass back? Did you forget how you are the one who figures it out? Did you forget how you are the supernatural cheerleader only to be equaled by Lydia-fucking-Martin, who leans on you-and-only-you, because you're the only one she respects e-fucking-nough to do so?! Did you forget about everything, about family, about how you're my family?!"

Stiles doesn't breathe. He stands still through Derek's fuming rant, like a deer in headlights. He remains in shock of Derek's break from character, a departure from half-grunts and moody jabs. A few moments later, he bursts out into a woeful wail. Derek, recognizing the opportunity, picks him up and hoists him back over the railing. There is no resistance. Stiles stands with his knees nearly buckling. He brings his hands, the only armor he has left, up to his face in an effort to hide his tears from the surrounding environment, from being emotionally naked.

Derek hops over the rails and embraces Stiles, whose head gets pushed into his sculpted chest. Derek blankets his arms around Stiles, one over top and one just below his shoulder blades. They stand for a long while, waiting for the tears to subside. He's practically an expert at waiting. This is something he actually understands.

After some time, Stiles pushes away and looks up, "I don't know if I'm strong enough to do this."

Derek looks down and mulling over his words, then looks into Stiles' eyes, "I've got the power, but Stiles, you've always been the Alpha. You're strong enough." He's never had everything splayed out on the table before. This is an uncomfortable first. He swallows painfully as he finishes the thought, "You are the light that protects this place, Stiles. Without you, I'm just Peter." He lowers his head, looking at, but not focusing on, the ground.

Something apparently clicks within Stiles. He meekly grins through drying tears and smacks his friend in the chest with the back of his hand, "You're stupid."

Derek coughs out amusement and motions his head toward the Camaro, "Need a lift?" It's almost strange to him how quickly things turned from tears to uneasy chuckles. He'll take it over any of the alternatives.

Stiles nods and snorts up some mucus again. He wipes the remainder on his sleeve, save what had already gathered on Derek's t-shirt. "Yeah," he looks down, his eyes trailing the path to the vehicle. They start walking and Stiles stops suddenly.

"What?"

"Why aren't you wearing shoes? Like, did no-shoes-with-socks-on-pavement become a thing while I was out? I wasn't gone long, Derek. God, you are absolutely helpless without me. I leave and you forget how to dress yourself. Are we lucky you even remembered to wear pants? Oh, and where are my keys by the way? God, I'm hungry. Did you bring snacks? I could use a snack." Derek is pretty certain the monologue is either some sort of acceptance speech or an attempt to breeze past the entire bridge-exchange.

Derek scowls, "Maybe you should go back to the bridge." He hopes it doesn't go under the 'too soon' category, because realistically...

Stiles laughs, "No, wolfie. You said you need me. You know me, I go where I'm needed. I'm like, the brains or something, like the grand marshal of ideas, " he brings his hand up to the side of his head throws it out in front of him, a visual display of 'idea'.

Stiles continues talking all the way to the car. Derek finds it irritating and relieving simultaneously - an indication of things swinging back to normal. When they reach the car, Stiles opens his door and he stops mid-sentence and looks out past the bridge toward the water. Derek looks at him, waiting for the shoe to drop again. It doesn't. "Don't worry, Sourwolf, " he sniffles again. "I'm just saying goodbye to some ghosts." Derek raises an eyebrow. "Not real ghosts. It's a metaphor, asshole," he looks at Derek across the car. "It's a noun. It's a figure of speech where you say something and it's referring to something else. God, you're lost without me."

Derek nearly barks back, his words pushing through closed teeth, "I know what a metaphor is, Stiles."

Back to whatever-normal-is sooner than expected, and certainly the demons aren't gone. Maybe this was cathartic for him, too. Maybe he could hear himself projecting things he needed to hear himself. Maybe they could walk forward together.

Derek inhales deeply through his nostrils and fills his lungs with the air that had been violently blowing past them. It smells like relief. It calms him for a second. This is what he asked for, the whole Stiles-package; intolerable as it can be, it's worth it. He doesn't know if his friend would have jumped and what it would have meant. He's not sure if he wouldn't have toppled over with him. He helped pull Stiles back, and for now, that is enough.

He's pretty sure the night terrors still come to Stiles, occasionally. For the next few nights, Derek will keep watch outside the house; he'll come to comfort him if they return. Each day is a new struggle and today's struggle certainly isn't over. They'll face tomorrow tomorrow. He hands Stiles the keys to the Jeep.

Derek rests in the seat. The black, leather interior groans under his weight. It's familiar, like his armor. It brings him focus. Fear is put aside for now. He has a clear-enough vision of the path ahead.

Today, they can breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> An important person in my life was having a discussion regarding suicide. This is my resulting catharsis.


End file.
